


A Different Kind Of Blue

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sentinel Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has one of those weird, sentinel reactions.  Blair valiantly resists temptation.</p><p>Posted at 852 Prospect in July 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind Of Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes from 852 are in the body of the work.

  
I wrote this for the TS Ficathons community on Live Journal. Many thanks to Tesserae and Raine Wynd for the beta work.

* * *

Getting Jim out of the taxi was awkward because Jim had decided that he was tired and he liked it in there, and he really liked Al the driver, who was close to becoming his very best friend in the world. Al came close to being Blair's very best friend in the world when he came around and coaxed Jim out of the car, and didn't roll his eyes too hard at the unfortunately small tip that Blair pressed into his hand. So Blair was a little short tonight. He muttered it under his breath as Al took off, and Jim started giggling. 

"Little short." More giggling, and Blair huffed in exasperation and used the arm he had around Jim's waist to steer him into 852, and into the elevator. 

"Well, this is certainly going to be an interesting footnote on your sensitivities." One Aqua Velva cocktail, _one_ , and Jim was gone like a freshman inhaling his first hit of weed. 

"Yup. Sensitivities." Jim's tongue stumbled over the word, and he leaned down to sniff at Blair's hair before planting a kiss on top of his head. This warmed Blair and pissed him off because while he'd normally say there was no such thing as an over-affectionate Jim, this was definitely - distracting. He looked up to check out Jim's face, which was smiling down at him with goofy tenderness plastered all over it. 'Plastered'. Yeah, there was another useful word, even if Blair was pretty sure that it was probably something about the blue dye in the curacao - or the combination of that vivid colouring with the alcohol or the food - rather than the alcohol itself. Jim's pupils weren't too large, which was good. Photo-sensitivity when Jim was too out of it to dial down wouldn't be fun, and Blair wasn't at all sure that he trusted Jim not to misbehave about a sleeping mask. 

"Jim. Hey, Jim? Have you ever had problems with blue food dyes before?" This wasn't just curiosity on Blair's part. Explaining why a cop was happily high enough to be cruising the stratosphere wouldn't strain Blair's powers of invention, but he wasn't inclined to embarrass Jim more than he had to. A little history might be useful; plus a Jim who could have a more or less coherent conversation probably didn't need an urgent trip to the ER. 

Jim muttered what sounded like usetaeatblueEmmaNemmsokay and Blair nodded understandingly. Blue M&Ms but he still had a moment's vision of Jim going down on his depressed girl friend called Emma. (God! never mind what Jim had been imbibing, what the hell had _Blair_ been getting into?) "That's good, man. " Jim was steered down the hallway like some cheerful Mack truck, and into 852. "Okay, let's just sit you down on the couch." 

Jim nodded agreeably. "Sure, Chief. I could probably do with sitting down." 

Blair eyed Jim anxiously. "Are you feeling okay? You don't feel sick, or headachy, or...." 

Jim flopped on the couch. "I just thought I should sit down, Chief." 

"Okay, okay, sitting down is good." Jim's manically cheerful smile showed his complete agreement with this. Blair perched on the arm of the couch and took Jim's wrist. "I want to check your pulse." 

Manic smile turned impish. "Hey, you want to feel me up, Sandburg, feel free." 

Resisting the urge to cover his face with his hand, Blair shook his head, and tried to concentrate. "Shut up, man, I'm trying to count." Jim's wrist was warm under his hand, and his pulse was within acceptable parameters. Blair wished that he could say the same about his own heart rate. Jim making innuendo with a cheerful smile on his handsome face was leading Blair's libido to entirely inappropriate places, and Blair suspected that Jim's senses were picking up on that. The suspicion was confirmed when Jim's arm twisted out of Blair's grip and Jim's hand got a hold on Blair's wrist and yanked: not hard enough to really hurt, but certainly hard enough that an unprepared Blair found himself sprawled in Jim's lap. 

"That's more like it." 

Blair awkwardly scrambled upright. "I don't think so," he declared. Jim pouted like a four year old who'd just been told that he couldn't have a popsicle. 

"Why not?" 

"Because you're flying sky high and you'll kick my ass hard enough to leave footprints when you're back in your right mind." 

"No, I won't." Impish turned into smug; the big grin warmed Jim's face. It really, really shouldn't look that attractive, but then Blair had a soft spot for a Jim who looked sure of himself. Sternly sure, laughingly sure, smugly sure - it all seemed to do the same thing, which was give Blair this weird twist in his gut. The good sort of twist. 

"Okay, maybe you won't, but we've had this conversation before, and you being whacked out of your skull isn't changing anything." 

"C'mon, Chief. I'm horny, you're horny, why not?" 

Blair briefly regretted telling Jim about pheromones. Jim had adamantly refused to take any formal tests (''Get real, Sandburg, there are some boundaries I'm not crossing."), but Blair had a feeling that Jim had done at least some private research. 

"Because I'm pretty sure that boning your research subject doesn't come under the American Anthropological Association's code of ethics. Plus, high. Hello!" 

"Screw the American Anthropo - " Jim's tongue stumbled over the word, and he abandoned the great pronunciation quest. "Screw them." 

" _They_ are a body corporate, Jim, you don't get to screw _it_." 

Jim stood up from the sofa. He looked completely steady and ridiculously cheerful. Clearly he didn't care at all about the conversation he and Blair had a few months back that had been made up of equal parts embarrassment and resentment at missed opportunities, where they had both of them eventually agreed that fucking each other was off the agenda. Yeah, Jim had looked pretty hang-dog back then, and Blair had felt like a shit - a dumb shit at that. 

Jim sure wasn't looking hang-dog now, although Blair found that _he_ could still feel like a shit for being sensible and ethical (and dumb), which was completely, absolutely unfair. He tried to imagine a compos mentis James Ellison this damn happy and had to admit it was a bridge too far; as was the lewd suggestion that Jim's gorgeous mouth was shaping. "Then I could fuck you instead." 

"And I've already explained how that is a bad idea that's not going to happen." It was kind of hard to sound resolute while Jim stalked towards Blair with an annoyingly innocent expression - like Jim was a kitten and Blair was the ultimate in kitty toys and Jim just wanted to bat him around the floor, or the bed, for a few rounds. 

"C'mon, Chief." 

Maybe Blair could have dodged faster when Jim pounced. Not so much a kitten as an octopus, Blair decided, as he belatedly performed some complicated footwork and hey presto! Blair was out of reach. 

"Y'know, Jim, I think that bed is an entirely good idea." 

Jim clapped his hands in glee which certainly helped depress any pretensions Blair's dick might have considered developing. 

"Bed as in sleeping." Disappointment then, and Blair stared in total fascination. Seeing Jim's face as open as the sky was potentially addictive. Make the most of it, he reminded himself. The poor guy is going to be mortified if he remembers this tomorrow . "Go on. Go upstairs." Blair made shooing motions. 

"You have to come with me," Jim declared. 

"No, I don't." 

"Yes, you do." 

"No, I...." Blair paused. "I can't believe I'm arguing with you about this." 

"Please, Chief. It'd be nice." 

"Nice. Uh huh. You're not fooling anyone, Ellison." 

Jim flashed him a naughty grin that was way too goofy to even consider taking seriously. 

"I will come up the stairs with you to make sure that you don't pitch over the side onto the floor and that is it. You try anything and I will kick you in the balls, Jim." Blair tried for a manly, admonishing tone, but he ended up sounding like Naomi. Good. He planned never, ever, to associate his mother and sex too closely, and that was a strategy he needed right now. No sex. 

"Upstairs." He waved his hands in a sort of 'march!' directive and then positioned himself with a hand in the small of Jim's back, morosely wondering where a guide's relationship with his sentinel fitted into the AAA's code of ethics. 

"Why do I have to go to bed, Chief?" Jim sounded genuinely confused. 

"Because you need to sleep this off, Jim. You said you were tired when we came home, remember?" 

"Oh. Okay." And with that Jim meekly headed up the stairs. At the top he dragged off his shoes and socks and pants and then halted, looking at his hand. Blair leaned against the wall, wondering if Jim had zoned, but he didn't think it was quite that. Jim occasionally turned his hand this way and that, and Blair decided that it was a simple stoned appreciation for the wonders of the universe. 

"Hey. Jim," he said quietly. "You might want to take your shirt and your jacket off, man. More comfortable that way." 

Jim turned to him and then yawned. "Yeah." Jacket and shirt were dropped on the floor and Jim climbed into bed and lay sprawled on his back, hiking the blankets up around his shoulders. 

"There. Better?" Blair enquired. 

"Better if you were here." Jim smiled and patted the mattress. Great. From appreciation of the wonders of the hand it was back to appreciation of the wonders of Blair. A little less tenacity from his sentinel might be a good thing. Blair approached and sat cross-legged beside Jim on the bed. 

"How do you feel?" 

"Weird." Jim's eyes blinked, long lashes fluttering up, down, up again. 

"Now there's a surprise." 

"You should lie down." 

"And you should stop being obvious." 

"Why?" 

"Because I am not going to have sex with you, Jim. Not when you're not with it." 

The happy cheer broke down into disappointment again. "You don't like me." 

Blair raised his eyes to the heavens in a plea for patience (and strength). "I like you, Jim. I really, really like you but sex with you just crosses way too many lines. 

"Too many lines." Jim frowned, and then giggled. "Straight lines. Straight lines, Sandburg, get it?" 

"Yeah. I get it, Jim." 

Jim frowned again. "I'm high, aren't I?" he asked in mildly indignant tones. 

"High as a kite, my friend. Although, for all I know, this is what you're like when you're drunk too, but I've never seen you drunk. All that Ellison self-control." Which was sadly lacking right now. 

"Self _discipline_ ," came the objection. Only James Ellison would think to make that distinction in this condition. 

"Yeah, sure, discipline. Just as well, if you're putting the moves on my hairy ass when you're under the influence." 

"Smooth moves," Jim slurred, and put out an imploring hand 

"You keep telling yourself that, buddy," Blair said and gave in to at least a little temptation. He lay down, on the _top_ of the covers, and extended his arm and let Jim lie in its crook, Jim's head resting on Blair's shoulder. Jim's breath was sweetly clean, not sour; testimony to the effect of Aqua Velva cocktails on the sentinel metabolism. 

"Pretty blue," Jim murmured, apropos of nothing. 

Pretty blue what? Blair wondered. Blue drink? Blue comforter? A pretty blue glow instead of a Golden influenced one? 

Jim stropped his cheek against Blair. Blair's arm was going to get numb long before either of them was prepared to move. Blair curled his arm around Jim's broad back and started stroking across his shoulder and upper arm, repetitive and soothing. 

"Hey, Jim. Did you know that in WW2 that some truly desperate guys would drink Aqua Velva, as in the aftershave, for their liquor hit? Which indicates a level of alcoholic addiction that's kind of pitiful to consider, because that stuff _has_ to taste nasty. I mean, _incredibly_ nasty." Jim snored once, a low, genteel noise, like a delicate maiden aunt who'd been put in the best chair and had finally surrendered to the Thanksgiving turkey and pumpkin pie. 

Blair observed. He was the observer, after all. Jim's breathing was quiet but steady. His colour was healthy. The only problem was that lying down like this meant that Blair was all too likely to go to sleep, too. He tried to slip his arm out from under Jim but got a protesting noise for his trouble. Blair heaved a deep, troubled sigh. Jim had his nose snuggled into Blair's hair, and Blair hoped that sleepiness and some disoriented loss of inhibition were all the effects of this particular adventure in unplanned substance abuse, or else this was going to get disgusting. 

Still... He stared at Jim's face. There was amused affection and irritated resentment all mixed into a messy ball somewhere between Blair's heart and throat. He rubbed his chest to remind that messy ball to just stay put, and then 'ahem-ed' like he was at a podium and started another anecdote. He _was_ the responsible anthropologist after all. He wasn't going to have sex with his subject. He was going to stay awake and make sure that all that happened was that Jim slept off his high. And that was that. He certainly wasn't going to indulge in any fantasies about what it might be like to be in this room and this bed with a Jim Ellison who wasn't out of his head or fast asleep. 

God. Sometimes, being the grown-up sucked. 

* * *

End 

A Different Kind Of Blue by Mab: [mabinbrowne@hotmail.com](mailto:mabinbrowne@hotmail.com)  



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